


Silhouettes

by starkjoy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 14:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12060927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkjoy/pseuds/starkjoy
Summary: A series of Theonsa-centric drabbles.





	1. Eyes Catch

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of my short prompt responses. Feel free to request one at @starkjoy on Tumblr.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: People realizing that they have a thing before they tell them.

The dinner hall is a cacophony of merriment. Northernmen and Ironborn crowd together along the long tables, laughing as they stuff themselves with bread, clunking over-filled mugs and singing crudely, drunk and rowdy on wine. Usually the Ironborn feasted as such over a particularly lucrative raid, one that yielded ample spoils. But tonight, rather, they celebrate their victory over the army of the dead. Their lives are prize enough.

Theon had partaken briefly, joining his men in a chant and accepting several brusque pats on the back from his fighting mates. Now he stands on the outskirts of the party, sipping his wine alone. Sansa’s at a table with her siblings, smiling into her cup at something Arya had said. He watches as strands of long red hair fall over her shoulder when she places the glass down. She glances his way and their eyes catch. He knows she’s watching him, too.

“So that’s Sansa Stark, hm?”

Theon jumps, unaware of Yara’s presence to his side. “What?”

His sister nods her head in gesture to the Stark’s table. “She’s pretty,” she admits with cocked brows. She sips from her drink.

Theon clenches his jaw, grip tight around the handle of his mug. “ _Don’t,_ Yara.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she whispers, a wry smirk playing at her lips as she flashes him a knowing look. “I don’t think I’m the Greyjoy she’s interested in.”


	2. Eyes Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Theon declaring "for Sansa" after rescuing Yara

The room blurs in Theon’s periphery, all muffled voices and shifting shapes under the shadow of firelight. Body twitching, his eyes latch to a drop of blood on the stones below him. He listens to the rhythmic pulse in his chest, each beat resounding like a slowing drum in his ears. He inhales. Exhales. A line of blood slips down his face, light as a fingertip tracing his features, and lands beside its red twin on the dark, cobbled floor. 

 _It's not mine,_ he reminds himself. _Not mine. His._

He'd sliced his sword across Euron’s sternum as his men fought the surrounding guards, but it hadn’t been enough. The man had only laughed at the minor cut, reveling in his nephew’s failed attempt with a wicked smile. In that moment Euron’s visage had transformed into dark waves, pale skin, and malevolent blue eyes. The smile survived.

Theon had frozen, body jittering, and Euron knocked him down with a punch to the gut. His sword clattered to the ground.

Spots of starry light had obscured his vision as he’d twisted in pain on the hard floor, air sucked from his chest. He’d heard men yelling and swords clashing as the fight continued around them. Metal piercing flesh had sounded to his left, and when his sight returned another man lay on the floor beside him, dead eyes staring into his own. The soldier’s limp hand was circled around the limb of a bow, an unused arrow resting between them.

Euron had seized Theon’s fallen sword in the melee and planted his feet on either side of his waist. “I’m going to kill you now,” Ramsay’s voice had gloated from his lips, “just as I promised.”

As his uncle lifted the sword with both hands, edging toward the final plunge, a swell of adrenaline swept over Theon’s body like a roaring wave crashing to the shore. He’d reached out, turning, and grasped the bow and arrow with either hand. The touch was familiar—natural—and with an instinctual flash he’d already positioned and drawn the arrow, letting his body surrender to memory. He'd stared into his attacker’s eyes when the sword came hurdling toward him, the man’s face a blur of his uncle’s and Ramsay’s, and released.

Heart hammering in his chest, Theon had watched as Euron faltered above him. It had taken him a moment to realize the arrow had shot straight through his esophagus. Spurts of blood sputtered from his uncle’s throat in an attempt to breathe, splattering onto Theon’s face below him. Wild eyes peered down at him in shock, then they glossed over, blank. Theon had rolled away as Euron’s corpse fell, landing where he’d lain before. He’d pushed himself up onto his elbows and stared, watching blood seep from his uncle’s throat. After a moment he’d stood completely, bounding off without a second thought to Yara’s cell.

“Theon,” comes his sister’s voice, waking him from his trance. He looks up—she’s standing above him as he sits, and although dirt and blood still muddies her face her aura is as fierce as ever. She’d hugged him after they had won the coup, allowing herself a moment of vulnerability, but hadn’t so much as shuddered an uneasy breath since. His eyes travel from hers to around the room. Two of her advisers and a courier are speaking hurriedly by the fire, flicking worried glances in his direction.

“I’ll be fine,” he tells her.

“I know,” Yara murmurs, and Theon’s eyes dart back to her own. She pauses. Then, “It’s something else.”

He knits his brows.

“A raven arrived yesterday. I didn’t know what it’d said until now, all I’d heard is that Euron meant to ignore it.” She exhales. “It’s for you…from Sansa Stark.”

Theon’s body jolts solid. He swallows, willing his chest to stay calm. “Sansa? Is she alright?”

Yara’s expression falters, a knowing look flickering in her eyes. “I don’t know.”

His stomach sinks. “What do you mean?” he asks, voice cracking as he stands. He sounds desperate even to himself. “What do you mean you _don’t know_ —”

“Theon,” his sister interrupts softly, “I don’t know when she’d sent it—”

“Tell me.”

Yara exhales through her nose, reaching out to hand him the scroll in her hand. “Read it. She says The Wall has been destroyed and an army of _undead_ are marching toward Winterfell. She claims Daenerys and Jon Snow are there as well. They’re asking for our help. She’s asking for _your_ help.”

Theon’s eyes rove over Sansa’s handwriting as his sister speaks. It’s neat and pretty, just like she’s always been. His heart burns as he remembers the last time he saw her, skin blue with cold and fiery hair matted with snow. He can still feel her arms around his chest and the weight of her head resting on his shoulder. She’d been the first person hold him like that in so long—perhaps ever.

The letter is addressed to him, so Jon must have told her he’d been on his way to Pyke to save Yara. She wouldn’t have known otherwise. There’s no way any of them could have known he’d been successful either, it’d only happened but an hour ago and ravens took a day at the least to travel from Winterfell to Pyke. Jon and Daenerys must have known Euron wouldn’t respond to their request after his stunt at the Dragon Pit, even if they informed him of Cersei’s change of heart. He imagines Sansa insisting on writing anyway, hoping that he’d find her note and listen. Believing that’d he’d win. That he’d survive.

“You think this is some kind of ploy to rid Daenerys of another ally?” Yara asks.

“No,” Theon answers, low. He looks up into his sister’s eyes. “The meeting at King’s Landing—it was to discuss the threat from the North. I’ve seen one, Yara. Daenerys and Cersei pledged to fight for Jon against them. The dead are real.”

His sister’s jaw hardens. She shifts, one fist tightening by her sides. “But if Daenerys is there, shouldn’t her army be enough? Maybe they already defeated them. She has dragons, for fuck’s sake.”

“Only two now. The White Walkers killed one.”

Yara’s eyes widen. She stiffens.

“We’ll send the men. Now, before it’s too late.”

Yara nods.

“I’ll go with them. For Sansa.”


	3. The Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: show!theonsa & (potentially aged up) sansa being in winterfell when theon took the castle in s2

“I’ve taken your castle.”

Sansa shoots from bed, grip tight around the white sheets guarding her bosom. She had only just waken moments ago, pulled from sleep by the yells of men outside her door. She’d hoped it only a dream at first. Now there was no mistaking—Theon Greyjoy stands before her, flanked by two menacing men. Swords clash and horses cry in the distance.

“Theon?” she murmurs with confusion.

He raises his chin, shoulders squared. “It’s Prince Theon now.”

Sansa frowns. She doesn’t understand. She’d known Theon her entire life, he’d grown up with her, he’s Robb’s closest friend—what did he mean he’d taken the castle? He couldn’t possibly—

“Get up,” Theon commands. “You have to get dressed.”

Her heart races. “What is happening?” Her eyes flick to the door. “Are we under attack?”

Theon inhales and steps closer to her bed. He leans over the bottom edge, hands perched on its wooden frame.

“I’ve taken Winterfell,” he boasts. His gaze is stony, jaw taut, and it’s chillingly unfamiliar compared to the boy she remembers, the one with brash humor and mischievous smiles. “I took it. I’m occupying it. I sent men over the walls with grappling claws and ropes.”

Sansa’s lips part, eyes flickering. “Why?”

“ _To take the castle,_ ” he repeats.

She shakes her head. “You went with Robb…”

“And he sent me back to Pyke,” he finishes coldly, turning from the bed. “I’m a Greyjoy. I can’t fight for Robb and your father both.”

Theon looks the same save for the squid-engraved armor, his brown curls just beneath his ears and scruff light. But Sansa doesn’t recognize him. Not like this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts and feedback are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!


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